I asked him,
whispering in his ear, whether he knows the woman standing on the
steps."

"And what did he say?"

"He? He says 'there are a great many of us.' Yes--'there are a great
many of us,' he says."

The peasant looked into the eyes of his guest questioningly, and,
smiling again, he continued:

"He's a man of great force, he is brave, he speaks straight out. They
beat him, and he keeps on his own way."

The peasant's uncertain, weak voice, his unfinished, but clear face,
his open eyes, inspired the mother with more and more confidence.
Instead of alarm and despondency, a sharp, shooting pity for Rybin
filled her bosom. Overwhelmed by her feelings, unable to restrain
herself, she suddenly burst out in bitter malice:

"Robbers, bigots!" and she broke into sobs.

The peasant walked away from her, sullenly nodding his head.

"The authorities have hired a whole lot of assistants to do their dirty
work for them. Yes, yes." He turned abruptly toward the mother again
and said softly: "Here's what I guessed--that you have papers in the
valise. Is that true?"

"Yes," answered the mother simply, wiping away her tears. "I was
bringing them to him."

He lowered his brows, gathered his beard into his hand, and looking on
the floor was silent for a time.

"The papers reached us, too; some books, also. We need them all. They
are so true. I can do very little reading myself, but I have a
friend--he can. My wife also reads to me." The peasant pondered for a
moment. "Now, then, what are you going to do with them--with the
valise?"

The mother looked at him.

"I'll leave it to you."

He was not surprised, did not protest, but only said curtly, "To us,"
and nodded his head in assent. He let go of his beard, but continued
to comb it with his fingers as he sat down.

With inexorable, stubborn persistency the mother's memory held up
before her eyes the scene of Rybin's torture. His image extinguished
all thoughts in her mind. The pain and injury she felt for the man
obscured every other sensation. Forgotten was the valise with the
books and newspapers. She had feelings only for Rybin. Tears flowed
constantly; her face was gloomy; but her voice did not tremble when she
said to her host:

"They rob a man, they choke him, they trample him in the mud--the
accursed! And when he says, 'What are you doing, you godless men?'
they beat and torture him."

"Power," returned the peasant. "They have grea